That One Time
by visionsofmangos
Summary: For once, Sam has to play nurse while Dean is sick, instead of the other way around. A wee!chesters fic.  This is my first real fanfic, so please keep that in mind to explain the fail!


It is human nature, in the midst of chaos, to cling to routine as an anchor. And so it happened that there was a set pattern to things in the Winchester household, even though everything around them was constantly changing. Often they didn't know where they'd be living one day to the next, and there was no telling when they'd have to pack up and go on another hunt. Still, there were certain immutable truths Sam Winchester had come to rely upon. One of those constants in his topsy-turvy, unpredictable life was Dean – specifically, that Dean would always be there to take care of him, even when their dad was out on a hunt and didn't come home for a few days.

That's why, the one time it was Dean who got sick instead of Sam, things seemed so weird. Sam was used to sitting in bed with his big brother next to him, coughing and moaning and generally earning pity, and being spoon-fed hastily assembled chicken soup from a can. (For all his admirable qualities, Dean Winchester was a pretty lousy cook. The one time he'd tried to make soup when Sammy got sick, both boys ended up spending the next day and a half bowing to the porcelain god. From that point onward, they agreed that no one would do any cooking unless absolutely necessary, and even then only simple things like pasta that even Dean would have to work hard to screw up.) Sam knew he was always awful to Dean when he was sick, but he never really thought much of it. That's just what big brothers did; they took care of you when you needed it. But when it was his turn for nurse duty, he realized just how much Dean actually sacrificed for him.

Of course, Dean being Dean, he refused to admit he was sick at all for the first three or four days. Nothing short of a coma would keep Dean off of a hunt – even snapped limbs might not do the trick; once last year John Winchester had caught his eldest attempting to sneak into the truck on a particularly nasty Wendigo hunt with a broken arm and finally had to put his foot down, explaining that having to look out for the boys only slowed him down, so it was better for them to stay home where, even if they couldn't exactly be useful, at least they weren't in the way. So on this particular occasion, it came as no surprise to either Sam or John that Dean passed off his obvious illness as mere sniffles. It sounded to Sammy more like Dean was hacking up a lung, but he didn't call him on it until Dean nearly passed out one morning at breakfast. Nothing, absolutely _nothing _got between Dean and food, and when Dean passed up on some only slightly chilled pancakes in favor of five extra minutes of sleep, followed by an impressive (and embarrassingly girlish, but Sam wouldn't tease him about that until Dean was feeling better, by which time the statute of limitations on mocking would prevent him from making anything big out of it anyway) swoon when John finally convinced him to get out of bed, Sam knew something was wrong. He shot his father a Look, which he'd perfected even at the tender age of eight, filled with significance.

"Dean," John sighed, "are you sick?"

"What? Of course not!" Dean yelped defensively, but it was no use. John pressed his palm to Dean's forehead and frowned.

"Yup, you've got a fever. You're staying home today, bud," he said.

Usually Dean didn't question his father's orders, but this was an exception. "What are you talking about? I'm not sick! I'm fine! Besides, it's just a routine salt-and-burn today, right?"

"No, Dean. You're staying home, and that's final," John said decisively. "Sammy, you'll take care of your brother, won't you?"

And so it happened that the roles were reversed, and it was Sam that was taking care of Dean for once. The first thing Sam noticed was that being sick made Dean cranky. Of course, that probably had something to do with the fact that he could scarcely force down one pancake, which was barely a snack for Dean, the bottomless pit. Sam tried to convince his brother to drink water, but Dean refused to cooperate.

"Come on, Dean," Sam coaxed. "Drink something, okay? You won't get any better if you—"

"Sam? Just shut up, will you?" Dean said tiredly. He rolled over to face the other wall in their small, dingy motel room.

"As soon as you drink some water," Sam promised.

Dean rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and sighed, "Fine." He took the glass and swallowed, but Sam noticed he'd spilled most of it down the front of his shirt.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asked a few minutes later.

"Didn't you say you'd shut up if I drank something?" Dean complained.

"Well, are you?"

"No."

Sam faked a surprised gasp. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

"Shut up, Sammy."

An uncomfortable silence descended. Sam squirmed, wishing he had a new book to read – somehow, his dad never seemed keen on the idea of library cards when they moved to a new place. He glanced around the room, trying to think of some way to keep his brother entertained.

"How about some TV?" he suggested.

"Fine," Dean grumbled, "whatever. But none of that educational crap."

Sam scrambled for the remote, grateful to have something semi-useful to do. He flipped through the eleven channels the motel TV received, two of which were such terrible quality he couldn't even make out what show was on. He wanted to ask Dean what to watch, but he didn't want to run the risk of provoking his brother any further. Finally he settled on a Spanish soap opera, mostly because everything else was infomercials, IQ-draining talk shows, or nature specials, which sort of fell under the "educational crap" ban.

A few minutes into the show, Dean finally seemed to notice it wasn't in English. "What the heck is this crap, Sam?"

"Some Spanish soap," Sam answered. "I couldn't find anything else."

"Huh," Dean grunted. He flopped onto the bed next to Sam and closed his eyes, though Sam thought he caught him sneaking peeks at the television screen every so often.

A little while later, Sam looked over to see his brother giving him a goofy grin. "What?" he asked indignantly. If there was one thing eight-year-old Sam excelled at, it was being indignant.

Dean didn't answer, only grinned some more, then contorted his face in a particularly ugly expression.

Alarmed, Sam jumped up, ready to dial 911 or thrust a bucket under his brother's chin, whatever had to be done. "What? What's wrong?"

Dean glanced again at the TV, where the Spanish-speaking couple huddled under a tent in a torrential downpour. His face still scrunched up, Dean uttered in a disturbing falsetto, "Oh! My beloved Juan, whatever shall we do? It's raining outside, and if I go out, I will mess up my hair!"

"That's not what she said," Sam said slowly, concerned. Was Dean hallucinating? Was his fever getting worse, or was this delirium a symptom of some deadly malady, or…?

"Come on, Sammy boy," Dean laughed, ruffling his little brother's floppy brown hair. "Don't give me that constipation face. I'm just making up lines. It's fun. You know, that thing you have when you're not working all the time? You should try letting loose once in a while, baby bro."

Sam wanted to object – after all, it was Dean who attempted to accompany their father on hunts with a broken arm – but he was too busy being happy that Dean was apparently healthy enough to crack jokes, even if they were at Sam's expense.

"Oh… okay. So… what do I do?"

"Just make something up. It doesn't have to make sense. Actually, it's better if it doesn't. Go on, try it."

"I don't know what to say!"

"Oh, Sam, stop trying to be so perfect all the time. Here, it goes something like this." Dean observed the harried-looking couple for another moment, then said in a deep voice, "No worries, babe. I'll just make an umbrella out of leaves from that weird-looking palm tree over there!" He glanced at Sam. "See? Now it's your turn."

"Um, okay." Sam wrinkled his nose, trying to think of something to say. "Uh… But, darling, the rain! You're allergic to water!"

Dean snorted. "Allergic to water? Really?"

"Like your stupid palm tree umbrella was any better," Sam retorted.

"Whatever." Dean paused, then screwed up his features into that butt-ugly mess he seemed to think made him look like a girl (Sam would have interjected here that he always looked like a girl, but he didn't want to ruin Dean's sudden good mood) and moaned, "I can't survive here without you! Don't go out in the rain, dear, it isn't worth it! I know you love me, but we just can't be together like this anymore!"

"What? What are you talking about? It's just a little rain."

"I know. But I can't love a man who's allergic to water! How will we ever raise healthy children?"

Sam raised an eyebrow but remained in character. Apparently Dean had decided to be the woman now, which left Sam with the stupid macho guy's part. "That doesn't matter now, Linda. We can solve that problem later. Right now we need to figure out how we're going to get to your brother's wedding on time."

"I can't go to my brother's wedding with wet hair, Juan! Don't you see? This is fate intervening, telling us we just aren't meant for each other!"

It went on like that for the remainder of the program, and into the next one. When John got home in the early morning, both boys were snoring peacefully. He wanted to ask how Sammy had managed babysitting his stubborn older brother, but John Winchester wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. And if the boys said some weird stuff in equally weird voices the next morning at breakfast, he chalked it up to some fever-induced silliness.

They were interviewing some locals about a supposed haunting in a small-town college. Dean's type of "research," of course, consisted more of leering suggestively at every half-attractive woman they passed, but Sam chose to ignore his brother's obnoxious behavior in favor of getting the job done as quickly as possible. They were just rounding the corner of the town's main street when he heard two women chattering in rapid-fire Spanish.

"Do you remember…" he began.

Dean finished the sentence for him. "That time we made up our own version of some dumb Spanish soap? Yeah, that was fun." He grinned fondly at the memory.

"Ha. Maybe for you. You aren't exactly Little Miss Sunshine when you're sick, Dean."

"Yeah? Well, neither are you. You're such a little princess, Samantha – even more than usual, I mean."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"What are you, four?"

"You started it!"

"B*tch!"

"Jerk!"

The boys glared at each other for a minute, but a second later Sam started cracking up.

"What are you smirking at, princess?"

Sam shot him a mischievous look. "Oh, Juan, however am I supposed to pay the rent on time?"

Dean caught on immediately. "Maria, I love you. Does money really matter? We'll be all right as long as we're together."

They spent the next two hours entertaining themselves with horrible acting skills and utterly nonsensical lines, perfect for a melodramatic Spanish soap opera.


End file.
